


they're only words (and words can't kill me)

by constanted



Series: Hell Island Survivors' Club [2]
Category: Lost
Genre: Gen, dialogue-heavy, honest to god these two deserve better, midnight encounters, parenting, the power of FRIENDSHIP!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 01:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6174961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constanted/pseuds/constanted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ah, yes, our very exclusive midnight staring-in-near-silence club," she offers.<br/>“The only prerequisite is that you’ve wasted at least three years alone on that rock,” he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they're only words (and words can't kill me)

**Author's Note:**

> [1] just assume this takes place in the same verse as my other post series fic, frankly. which means: claire (along with aaron) is living near d+p for the sake of knowing people near her & feeling slightly safer. kate is sometimes there as well too.  
> [2] a tl;dr summary of this fic is claire and desmond bond in weird ways because of course they do. parallels are discussed. fun.  
> [3] title from say hi's "let's talk about spaceships"

_i._

“Hey,” she says, jumping a little at the sight of him, “Why are you—“  
“It’s quiet up here,” he says, “S’always nice.”  
“I’ve never been up here before. Just found out you could… walk on it.”  
He laughs, and she smiles in return. The few weeks before everything seemed to blow up, she remembers, they were friends, in a way. They had each others’ backs. She wonders if he remembers this too— he probably doesn’t. She barely does. They have other things to worry about. They don’t talk for the rest of the night. It’s nice— and he’s right, quiet. The only noise she hears all night is when he hums a song she won’t hear on the radio until two years from then. And it’s a nice song, she supposes, but it’s never one of her favorites.

 

_ii._

“Back up here for more?”  
“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I’m boring company.”  
“I appreciate boring,” she says, pointedly.  
“I’m honored.”  
He goes back to reading whatever he’s reading, humming on occasion.

“How’s… your son?” she asks, but she can’t say the kid’s name. It’s rude of her, honestly, but it just… stirs up some feelings that she’s not willing to tackle anymore.  
“He’s good,” he smiles, “He’s started getting really into music, Pen says she’s considering buying a piano. Yours?”  
“He called me ‘mum’ the other day, which was nice.”  
“That’s good. That’s great.”  
“What’re you reading?”  
He flashes the cover at her, quickly, but she doesn’t read the title. She should get her eyes checked, she thinks. He reads out loud to her, for a little bit, but there’s no dialogue or character names, it’s just prose. It’s pretty enough, she supposes, but lacking in substance. 

“I’ve missed you,” he says, but the book is closed. It’s genuine.

She nods.

 

_iii._

“God, you’re almost a regular, now.”  
“Ah, yes, our very exclusive midnight staring-in-near-silence club," she offers, with a slight smile.  
“The only prerequisite is that you’ve wasted at least three years alone on that _rock,_ ” he says, more anger in that last word than she’s ever heard in his voice.  
She had forgotten about him having been there before, honestly, he seemed so— so _normal_ , despite it. Thinking about it, she envied him, for easing back into civilization when she’s had such a rough run. She laughs nonetheless. She feels the tips of her hair tickle her chin.

“I’m glad,” he says, “That you’re safer, now. If you ever wanna— uh, talk about it— I’m here, and I kinda get it? In a way? Similar situations.”  
“Thanks,” she says, but she doesn’t take his offer, “I, um, really appreciate it.”

 

_iv._

She doesn’t mean to find him in this state, where he’s panicking and crying and isolating himself because that’s, (she assumes,) what he does. But she finds him anyways, at one in the morning, on the rooftop, because she’s been going up here without him, lately, to relax. She sits next to him, and doesn’t say anything. 

“It’s my fault,” he says, solemnly, when he’s stopped hyperventilating, “For what happened to you.”  
She disagrees, it’s no one but _His_ fault— but he gets off the subject of her fast.  
“Sometimes,” he says, “I see things, and I can’t tell if they’re just plain fears or if they’re real, y’know?”  
And she adds, “I’m afraid I’ll snap any second, that I’ll hurt Aaron when I do.”

And they understand each other, and she almost feels relief, for once. It’s different, it’s strange, how they open up to each other— the words just keep spilling out of their mouths, like they’re in sync.

“I zone out in front of him sometimes—“  
“I know and she has to shake me to get me out of—“  
“I need to be talked to, to get out of it.”  
“I’m afraid he’s going to grow up and hate me.”  
“My dad was never there, always working, and I’m never there for him.”  
“My dad left when I was two. I left Aaron— I’m already as bad.”

 

_v._

“We should talk more during the daytime.”  
“She keeps asking me where I go at night.”  
“Committing adultery with a younger woman?”  
“Don’t joke about that.”  
“Sorry.”  
There's a pause, for a second.  
“She really cares about you, you know. My wife. Worries about you,” he says, with a small smile.  
“That’s nice of her. I appreciate the cake she sent—“  
“Oh, no,” he laughs, nervous, “That was me. I worry-bake. She worry-writes-super-heartfelt-cards. ”  
“Ah, so she’s the writer, between the two of you.”  
“And somehow the less wordy.”  
“I’m glad you’re willing to talk to me, um, y’know… like a person.”  
“It’s only reasonable. Because, you are. A person, that is. And you did it for me, so I might as well return the favor.”

They talk the night away. It’s nice.

**Author's Note:**

> what is this. goodnight.


End file.
